


MAKER'S BREATH ★

by elfroot



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Awkward Crush, Awkward Sexual Situations, Blow Jobs, Character Death, Character Study, Cullenlingus, Darkspawn, Desk Sex, F/M, First Dates, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Game of Thrones References, Humor, Kissing, Love, Making Love, Masturbation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Other, Prompt Fill, Quickies, Romance, Strip Tease, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3891889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfroot/pseuds/elfroot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of drabbles featuring Alistair OR Cullen as the main protagonists, either on their own or with the women they love. Contains NSFW pieces of art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In which Cullen learns that keeping a straight face while on the receiving end of a blowjob is nigh-impossible, especially when Cassandra decides to barge in.

Cullen’s breath, short and hitched—staccato notes lost in the fur of his pauldrons.

His lover, warm and  _inquisitive_ , poised between his legs and coaxing sounds out of his throat, raw and stifled.

He warned her.  _There’s still work to do before I… Hm? I… yes, by all means. You know I enjoy your compan—what? Where? In my—oh, wait, what are you…n-no, I can't—we shouldn’t… not here, I… please, I’m expecting Cassandra to—Maker’s breath! You can’t be s-serious, I’m… ahhhh… don’t… what do you… h-hard? o-of course I'm… no… n-no… this isn’t a-an invitation to… ahhhhhhh…_

He grips the edge of his desk with both hands, knuckles white and jaw taut. He tries not to flinch when Cassandra finally walks in, but his face feels warm and his blood feels cold and his loins are on fire. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. She speaks and he squirms and she frowns and he catches his bottom lip between clenched teeth, sweat pearling at his brow. A pen is knocked off the desk—his gestures are brusque, abrupt, nostrils flaring at the same rhythm as his wild heartbeat, and she knows something’s amiss.

“Is everything…?”

He nods,  _fast_ , clearing his throat to muffle a moan, and he breathes hard, toes curled and legs spread wider.

“Commander, I—”

“I’m fine,” he manages to croak, surprising himself, and his head pounds and he _bucks up_ —he needs more,  _less_ , now, quietly cursing  _and_  praising the Maker for this moment.

“Cullen,” she sighs, and he knows from her tone and his name that she means business, but he’s so far past  _thinking_. “You look feverish. Perhaps you should consider—”

“Maker  _yes_!” he groans,  _loud_ , and she frowns harder and he shakes his head and _no, I-I mean, yes, I… need… a moment alone, if you would…_  and she stares, because of course she does, but she obliges, reluctantly so, expecting a report by morning.

He moves swiftly once she’s gone, the chair impatiently knocked away. His hands are febrile on his lover as he urges her up— _too much fabric, not enough skin_ —and he crushes her lips and he moans her name, shaft jutting hard and thick between them. It doesn’t take long before he finds what he needs, his lover’s thighs spread apart and welcoming, her back arched in waiting. And he  _takes_  the offer, fingers twisted sharp around her hips as he  _pushes_  and groans and curses under his breath, mouth hanging open and tongue slow and lazy around hers, his cock buried deep.

With her hands pressed flush against his arse, he thinks, distantly, that it most definitely isn’t the sort of report Cassandra will be expecting, and it’s just as well.

[elfrooted @ tumblr](http://elfrooted.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for this fluffy drabble 200% from [this gorgeous piece](http://greendelle.tumblr.com/post/112193805376/a-late-b-day-present-for-junkipii) by greendelle @ tumblr. Involves an impromptu escapade somewhere in the Frostback Mountains, snow, Ser Woolsley, and fluff in the cold~

Casual. Mellow.  _Nonchalant_. It’s what Cullen’s been aiming for since morning dawned, but all he’s accomplished so far is a rosy glow on his cheeks and a flood of quivery noises in his throat, and he wishes he could blame the cold. He can’t. He feels entirely  _too warm_ despite the chilly air of the Frostback Mountains, and it bites into his flesh and it freezes into his hair, crystallized flakes in his stubble, and his chest is on fire.

They’ve left Skyhold before sunrise, at her request.  _To_   _hunt_. He stands nearby with a bow in his hand, gauche, graceless— _utterly incompetent_ —and she laughs and she throws her head back, a cascade of amber silk, and she’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. The sound of her voice eclipses the singsong recital of the birds flying by, and he can’t keep track of his targets—he follows her, sidelong glances flushed and gentle, and she tilts her neck and she smiles at him, and he nearly swallows his tongue.  _Tell her_.  He’ll never get such an opportunity again. He shouldn’t even  _be_  here, but when she came to him, weapons in hands, hair still pell-mell from sleep and eyes gleaming with impish excitement, he couldn’t find it in himself to decline.  _You’ve brought this upon yourself. Tell her, you utter coward. This is your chance._ But he doesn’t tell her, and she looks at him when he clears his throat and she smiles again, expectant, the same glint in her eyes, but he looks away and she sighs, and they sigh together and he feels unqualified.

Perhaps  _disqualified_.

Solas would have kept her entertained, with tales of dreams and mysteries. Sera would have killed enough rams to feed their army for an entire week by now. Cassandra would have accomplished just as much—perhaps with a dragon in tow. Iron Bull…  _well_ , he’d rather not imagine what he would have brought back. Dorian would have made her laugh, all the while teaching the rams to style their fur properly rather than killing them—he suspects Vivienne would have yielded similar results. Blackwall would have distracted her with legends of the Grey Wardens, and Varric would have lured the rams right in, Bianca at the ready. But he?  _He_  fumbles, trailing behind, nearly shooting  _her_  rather than the rams, and he doesn’t know why her laughter never ceases, light, soft, patient, as though she enjoys his inadequacy.

“I’m beginning to wonder why you decided to bring me along,” he groans, and he shakes his head as a ram hops away, a frown creasing his face. “You would have been far more successful without me.”

“But I would have been  _without_  you,” she counters, and her lips stretch and she comes closer, her eyes undecipherable. “I enjoy your company, Cullen.”

“Oh, I…” He smiles, uneasy, a brief chuckle rolling on his tongue as he rakes cold fingers through his equally cold hair, wishing his face felt just as chilled. “Of course, I, uh… As do I. I-I mean,  _your_  company, that is—not  _mine_. Hm—”

And there it is, her laugh, loud and gentle, and he stills and he stares and he breathes in, quick, mesmerized, and his pulse rushes to his head. He feels dizzy looking at her, and she stares back, curious, open, and  _Maker’s breath_ , she—

“Omph!”

—slams into him, collides, her face against his chest, and he tumbles backward, her weight in his arms, a  _red ram_  running by as he lands in the snow, his lap full of her.

_Well_ , how very gratifying to have a blasted goat do his work for him.

He’s of a mind to growl, at himself,  _at the blighted beast_ , but he can’t, not with her perched above him with her face so close to his own, not with his heart in his throat. His mouth grows dry, and she doesn’t move, her eyes locked into his, and he feels light, warm,  _burning_ , and his hand drifts to her cheek, slow, tender, finger curled around a strand of copper.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, barely audible, and there’s a smile on his lips, faint, _delighted_ , and his chest aches and his arm tightens around her waist, and—

“Oh, for Andraste’s sake!” he snaps, a flurry of snow hurled and thrown and flicked at his face as the same goat hops by, and she rolls off,  _away_ … but she’s laughing again, always, and it comes easy, his own laughter, and he decides, idly, that maybe he’ll spare that blasted ram after all.

Not that he could shoot it even if he  _tried_.

He’s on his feet before she is, dusting snow off his coat, his scarf, his hair.  _Time to go?_  she asks, and the moment’s passed, but as he nods, bow in hand, he knows it isn’t completely gone.

They return to Skyhold side by side, the sun warmer now, stolen glances and covert smiles. When they finally reach the gates, duties call, and he goes his way and she goes hers, but he  _looks_ , over his shoulder, once, twice, catching her looking back, and he smiles to himself, like a fool, as Jim halts his cadence with a report, and he doesn’t care.

He won’t see her again until nightfall, his steps slow but sure as he makes his way to her quarters. He doesn’t wait long. She opens the door quickly, surprise and warmth in her eyes, and she stalls, her breath shallow in the entrance, and he drifts towards her and she glides towards him, and he cups her face, warm, tender, a sigh against her lips.

“As are you,” she whispers,  _wavers_ , and he holds her there with his smile brushing over hers and it doesn’t matter that he’s flustered once more, because her hands are in his hair and her heart beats against his, and they breathe the same air.

_You’re beautiful_ , he thinks she meant. And he knows he’ll never feel cold again.

 

[elfrooted @ tumblr](http://elfrooted.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen undresses and touches himself for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> art by nsfwfrosch @ tumblr.

You're gawking. He knows—he's doing this for  _you_ , touch denied, only a spectator,  _and what a spectacle it is_. All clean and sharp lines, and a lopsided smile he only smiles for you, when his blood boils, rushing down his cock and  _thickening_ , jerking plump and large in the grip of his palm. You're distracted—there's so much to ogle, not just his shaft but the  _whole of him_ , strong cords of muscles defining his body, broad yet lean, and you marvel at the beauty he exudes. Cullen is raw,  _refined_ , smooth and rough and everything inbetween, the only sign of his bashful inclinations now splashed across his cheeks. It doesn't take away a single ounce of the confidence he's gained,  _because of you_ ,  and he stands tall here, the fur of his coat loose around his shoulders, long and slow motions of his wrist as calloused fingers tighten around him. You squirm and you gape, the heat in his eyes boring into you, and you feel his gaze in your gut,  _in your loins_ , your thighs spreading of their own volition. You want him  _there_ , more than you've ever wanted anything, and you bite your lip as he swipes his tongue over his, and his cock bobs harder.  _Cullen_ , and his name chafes your throat and he growls in appreciation, and you know from the way he looks at you that he's just as enticed as you are. His shaft twitches, and he strokes faster, pausing around the head to rub his thumb over the crown, and you note the hitch in his breath, his stomach flexing with the moan he barely contains.

His coat slides off him—you  _gasp_ , and his hips move in unison with his arm, perfectly sculpted, his free hand roaming across the expanse of his chest. You could trail your lips there, your  _tongue_ , and you watch mesmerized as he pinches himself, gently, taut nipple as he arches his back. His cock juts heavier between the sinewed shape of his thighs, and he nibbles on his lip, throwing his head back and revealing the gruff of his throat, fine collarbones and a chest rising  _faster_ , and you take a step in his direction, your gaze riveted on the precum he languorously smears around the tip of his cock.

_Maker's breath_.

Your own heaves out of your lungs and you find yourself whining in front of him, burning for his touch, and he cracks his eyes open and he sees  _you_ , only you, closing the distance between you with a rougher jerk of his hand. He holds his shaft as his free arm snakes around your waist, pulling you close, and he claims your lips, wet and hot and parted as you moan together. You hang there in his embrace, your skin grazed by his stubble, but you don't care, because you feel him  _there_ , where it burns, his cock nudging you where you need it, hard and thick and warm, and the friction makes you shiver against his body.

He never lets go of you, rubbing himself where you want him, and you cling to him and he clings to you and you cry his name around his tongue, and he breathes  _I love you_.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a gift for raexmell (tumblr), based on the cave scene between jon snow and ygritte (game of thrones). slight canon divergences, namely cullen’s vows, which i know he never took, but for the sake of this drabble here… let’s just say he did. some parts of the dialogue were fully taken from the original scene. raewyn lavellan belongs to raexmell ♥

_We shouldn’t_.

It’s only a whisper, faint against the stone, echoes of a life that is no longer his, and Cullen sways with the remnants of his past, a vision of sheer delight in front of him. Raewyn Lavellan stands bare and candid in the midst of rocks and darkness, the epitome of every temptation he swore to renounce, and he can feel his own surrender,  _close_ , dry on his tongue and heavier in his chest. He was a templar, once. He was a templar and he vowed to serve, to protect, no distractions,  _nothing_ , giving his life to something greater, greater than him,  _everything_ , a noble cause, and still the Chantry fell and  _he_  fell long before  _it_  did, and he doesn’t know how to break the ideals that left him shattered. He doesn’t know because he never did, always devoted, even when he shouldn’t have, and it matters to him, oaths and words and promises, but she says  _we should_  and he wavers,  _for her_ , because after all this time, scars and duties, demons looming,  _she_  matters more, and he can’t deny her,  _them_ , any longer.

There’s a question in her eyes,  _pain_ , framed by copper curls that fall smooth and thick past her shoulders, and her lips brush against his and he hisses, a frown creasing his face, because he’s so afraid to taint her.   _She_ isn’t,  _afraid_ , only patient, _for him_ , because she knows, his demons, his struggles, and still she sees,  _him_ , everything he is underneath, everything he was and everything he’ll be, and  _she wants him_. It’s difficult to believe—he rarely deems himself worthy of her affection—but here, with her gaze locked into his and the smile that trembles at the corner of her mouth,  _he believes_. He leans in,  _sighs_ , both of his hands to cup her face,  _never enough_ , and she arches her body against his,  _Cullen_ , and he nods, slow, hazy, her voice filtered through the fog gathering in his mind and oh,  _Maker_ , she feels exquisite, so warm in his arms, and he wants to be hers, fully, the only thing that makes sense in this forsaken world, and he needs to show her.

He does.  _He tries_.

Her fingers tighten sharp in his hair as he glides his tongue along the fine line of her jaw, a gasp lost in his curls as his hand molds the contours of her shoulder. He keeps her close with his other arm, wrapped loose around her waist, and she pushes against him,  _her body_ , seeking his warmth, her breasts crushed by the hard planes of his chest. He’s often imagined what she would feel like, and no fantasy could have come close to this, plump and soft and heavy, taut nipples grazing against his. _Maker’s breath_. She bites her lip and he knows only because he trails his own there, a sweep of his tongue, and she moves languorous against him, his cock swelling at the apex of her thighs, and he breathes and she moans and they tremble together, and he buries his nose in her neck.  He doesn’t know how to touch her. There’s no technique for this, only his desire, his  _heart_ , and it beats against hers and it’s what leads him to her, hesitant, hammering in every part of him, skin pulsing, and he shivers there with her breast in his palm and he squeezes and he  _growls_ , lips parted, his breath warm and shaky against her throat.

“Cullen…”

“Rae…”

“ _More_.”

Only a word, and still it means everything, an echo in his loins, jutting hard and rubbing slow against her sex, and it’s what he wants,  _her sex_ , all over his lips, and he doesn’t know why and he doesn’t need to, an instinct to pamper, to pleasure,  _her_ , and he needs to give her  _more_.

He does, running his thumb over her nipple as he bends and sinks to his knees, pausing to kiss her there, her neck, her shoulder, her chest, her  _breast_ ,  soft and full, and he licks and he nips and she shudders, parting her legs for him, weaker now, but he won’t let her fall. Her skin is scarred in places that shouldn’t be, and it  _stings_ , a past he can’t erase, no more than she can erase his, but in the midst of battle, they’ve found each other, and no harm will come to her again, so long as he breathes. He does,  _breathe_ , hot against her navel, and he grips her hips and she plays with his hair, one of her hands curled around her breast—she pinches herself, squeezes and kneads, as if to keep  _his_  touch from fading, and she moans soft and long and he catches a glimpse of her and he  _whines_ , knuckles white against her skin,  _shaky_ , his cock jerking thick at the sight of her. He can’t afford to touch himself  _now_ , to run his palm along his length and run his thumb around the head, to catch the drops of precum there and smear them all over the crown,  _because he wouldn’t last_ —he writhes instead, feeling the weight of his erection between his thighs,  _hard_ , twitching for her, and she says his name and he nods again, nuzzling her, auburn curls around his nose, and he breathes her in and she stirs his senses, and he needs to taste her.

Her hold changes once he finds his way between her thighs, and she pulls at his hair and he doesn’t care, his ears filled with her sighs, staccato notes lost in the cave and resonating within him,  _his cock_ , glistening now, only a faint glow around them. He doesn’t really notice, but he  _moves_ , languid, his hips and his arse as he flicks his tongue over the swollen nub nestled there, and her knees buckle and he keeps her steady, strength in his arms to help her stand, and he lavishes her, lapping, licking, suckling, so slick on his tongue, so warm, trickling down his lips, his chin, and he feels himself leaking in turn, a pressure he needs to relieve,  _now_ , and his hand rushes straight to his cock.

“Maker’s breath,” he wheezes against her, and he never stops stroking her, mouth full as he squeezes himself, and he groans, abrupt jerks of his wrist around the tip of his cock, lips parted on muffled moans.

“I’m so close, Cullen,” he hears her, and it’s a relief, really, because he doesn’t think he can stop touching himself now, lazy one moment and hurried the next, and she wriggles there above him and his grip around her weakens, his tongue frenzied against her swollen clit.

“You’re so beautiful,” he all but whispers, and it doesn’t make sense but it  _does_ , because  _she is_ , and she laughs, a choked sound as her knees waver and he wavers as well, stroking himself faster, so full of her, her taste, her scent, and his head swims in sensations.

“Touch me, Cullen…”

“I  _am_ … touching you…  _Raewyn_ ,” he sighs, suckling her, nuzzling her, fingers light on her hip, and she laughs again, pulling at his hair and forcing him away, trembling from need,  _so close_ , lashes drooping low as her gaze meets his.

“Make me come with your cock, Cullen. I need to feel you…”

He nearly comes apart at the sound of her plea, gentle and commanding all at once, _his fiery lover_ , and she shifts quick and he follows, looming over her as she lays on her back, only their clothes to welcome her. He doesn’t waste a single second. His mouth hangs open over hers as she wraps her arms around his neck, and he grabs himself again, guiding his cock between her folds, nudging her, finding her clit once more and  _rubbing_ , slow circles with the crown of his shaft, and she bucks up and he gives more,  _faster_ , his tongue lazy around hers as they pant together, and he needs to come  _now_.

The first wave of his climax hits as she squeezes her thighs around him, and she cries and he mewls into her mouth, thick spurts of cum spilled over her sex. He writhes above her, a growl in his throat as his cock twitches against her, and he shudders with her, rubbing her slow even as his orgasm fades, even as his cock softens, following the rolls of her hips. He doesn’t stop moving until she does, and only then does he allow himself to collapse, rolling onto his side to welcome her close, her arm slung over his chest and her head nestled in the crook of his neck.

“That thing you did with your mouth…” she starts, her voice so soft, so  _pleased_ , and he flushes, arm tightening around her waist. “Is that what men do to their ladies in Ferelden?”

“I… um, I-I don’t know,” he gives a feeble smile, clearing his throat as he looks askance,  _up_ , away from her  _inquisitive_  stare, but she lifts her head and she touches his jaw, a tender caress on his unshaven stubble, and he finds her eyes again, his smile warmer. “I… merely wanted to kiss you there. You seemed to enjoy it.”

“Hmmm, I liked it some, I suppose,” she grins, and his chest feels much lighter now, the corner of his mouth curled in impish respite. “Who taught you that?”

“There’s been… no one else,” he shakes his head, and she quirks her brows and he cups his cheek, careful, searching her gaze, and they find each other and he breathes, fingertips light on her temple. “Only you.”

“A maid… You were a  _maid_.”

“I was a  _templar_ ,” he nearly winces, but his frown vanishes the moment she chuckles. “How about… you. Were you a maid?”

“Do you think I was?”

_He shouldn’t have asked_.

“He was just a boy,” she says, and he knows she speaks of a man before him, a man before  _war_ , and it’s odd, how chaos has changed so many things, for the worst and for the better, and he can’t imagine his life without her. “He came trading with his brothers. He had red hair like me, kissed by fire… but he was weak. Not like you. That was the first one. Then there was this Thenn boy, spoke no Common but oh, _creators_ , he was built like a mammoth—”

“I, uh… t-thank you, I… think I’ve heard enough,” he coughs, a scowl creasing his face, and still he laughs when she does, a mild rumble that shakes them both, because he knows she jests, and the past doesn’t matter any longer, only this, them, _now_ , and he hugs her close and she rests her forehead against his, and they hold each other.

“I don’t want to leave, Cullen,” she all but whispers, and he nuzzles her nose and he strokes her hair, his chest heavier—he knows exactly what she means.

“Neither do I,” he speaks against her lips, and he smiles, pained, the same grief in her eyes, the same hopes, because nothing is certain out there, nothing is certain but _this_ , her body against his and his heart beating with hers, and it’s the only vow worth keeping.

The only vow that’ll ever truly matter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which cullen decides to give himself some love, only to wind up being caught by his beloved. short drabble, nsfw, and the ending is cheesy as fuck. beware the sandwich. it’s eternalshiva‘s fault.

They’ve eluded him all week. He doesn’t know how, especially  _here_ , soaked on the blasted Storm Coast, and it’s ridiculous, this elusion, how they constantly miss each other when they are so close. Closer than they could ever be in Skyhold, stoned walls and councils and military forces, duties left and right, never alone. They could be, here.  _Alone_. But they aren’t, and their scent still fills the air as Cullen wanders inbetween tents and  _he can’t focus_ , fighting off the occasional spider with a distracted hand.  _This isn’t what he signed up for_. Harding stares at him like he’s gone mad, and perhaps he has—he could be useful elsewhere, with soldiers, a shield in his hand, helping them train. He could be useful with  _them_ , the Inquisitor, gone with a party of four Maker knows where, but instead he’s stranded here, waiting for a threat that doesn’t come, and Harding tells him,  _patience Commander_ , but he ran out a hundred sighs ago.

They left something for him. A meal, and a note.

“ _You look particularly handsome today. Thought of you all week. We’ll see each other soon, but in the meantime, do remember to feed yourself, until I return with something more to satisfy your tastes._

_Made with love,  
_ _Lavellan_ ”

He can’t stop smiling, because he knows that they know, his tendency to forget his most basic needs when there’s work to do, although there is one in particular that hasn’t stopped clawing at his senses ever since he watched them leave in the morning. He remembers closing his eyes every time they brushed past him, because it’s all he could do, leaning in and craning his neck, subtle, to catch their scent. He remembers following, slow, nostrils flaring as he bit his tongue to keep himself from lurching forward, and he remembers every touch in passing, evasive,  _always evasive_ , and he’s choking on his need of them, desperate for more.

He wasn’t even allowed a blasted  _hug_.

He does try to ignore the bulge in his trousers. But as he slips into his tent and out of his armor, there’s nothing but him there, a half-eaten sandwich on the small table near his makeshift bedding, and a flask of oil in a satchel.  _To ward-off bedbugs_ , his lover said, but he remembers the lopsided smile they sported when they left it there and it smells good in the crook of his palm, greasy, slick.  _Warm_. He needs warmth. His hands are cold and his loins are on fire, and he thinks, innocently, that he should, _perhaps_ , he could—just for a few moments, that is…

_Oh, Sweet Andraste_.

His cock jerks under the touch of his finger, eager, and he sighs low and heavy, dragging the back of his knuckle down its length. It twitches against his abdomen, thick, painfully hard, and he runs his thumb over the crown, once, twice, arching with a roll of hips. He’s shaking, shivering, from  _heat_ , restrained and impatient all at once, and he doesn’t want to but  _he does_  and their scent is in his hand and he gives in.

He hasn’t done this in so long, his shaft feels heavier in his palm, bigger, and he bites his lip and he marvels, knees apart, his attention riveted on the vein pulsing along his strokes. He’s never really looked before. He’s never really taken the time, duties first, kneading himself through his trousers in the barracks, or squeezing his cock hard and fast inbetween war councils, a few minutes, coming in the grass and spending more time hiding his shame than pumping it out. But here… here, it’s all he has,  _time_ , and the muscles of his arm clench and his abdomen does as well, taut, strained, hips rising and falling, quick and slow, and he fucks his own hand and _Maker’s breath_  it’s better than he remembers.

_Is everything alright in there_? he hears, distantly, and his eyelids feel so heavy. Harding is there, near the tent—her shadow wavers against the candle’s glow, and he nods, as if she could see him, and he knows she can’t and he nods again, groaning _yes, yes_ , and she walks away and he bucks up and his cock slips out of his hand, in again,  _out_. It’s good, it’s  _good_ , and he doesn’t have enough fingers—he leaks and he swells and he slicks himself up, down, and he thinks, vaguely, that their touch is so much warmer, and his wrist hurts but it doesn’t matter. He needs to come, his head in a buzz, and his vision’s blurred and his breath’s sharpened, wheezed, punched out of his lungs—

“Cullen?”

—and it storms right back in.  _Lavellan_. They stand there, immobile,  _squinting_ , and he rushes up and he fumbles and he waves his hand in front of him, like a fool, like he hasn’t just been pleasuring himself. He’s so close. His cock jerks of its own volition, and it’s where they look, tongue swiping along their bottom lip, and Cullen whines, whimpers,  _he’s so damn hard_ , and he growls, towards them, catching their scent and making them his.

His cock juts thick and erect between them, and he rubs himself, fabric ripped off, _away_ , and they leap and they climb, thighs wrapped around his standing form. A finger slips in, two—he swallows their moan, gasping with them, lips parted over lips, staccato sighs.

“I’ve missed you,” he shakes, and they roll against him, wanting, and he finds what they both need.

It’s too soon, he knows—they don’t care, guiding him in, and they groan the same need, around his tongue, urgent on his lips. That’s how he fucks them,  _urgent_ , the head of his cock slipping in, out, never deeper,  _fast_ , his arse taut and firm as he moves and it’s enough, rough, a litany of broken cries in his throat. He comes like this, quick spurts, inside as he groans in the crook of their neck, and they grunt, nails digging into his shoulders, the plant of their feet pulling him closer. They come in turn—he doesn’t stop, not until they have—and they collapse against him, he melts against them, and they breathe together, harsh, gentle, caresses down his back and nuzzles up their jaw.

“Had I known that a simple meal would have that effect on you…

"Nevermind the sandwich,” he laughs, a chuckle, and he holds them tight, guiding them down, a tangle of exhausted limbs on his makeshift bedding. “ _You_  have that effect on me.”

“Perhaps I should bring you along more often.”

“Perhaps you should,” he smiles, impish, and he kisses their cheek, their nose, tender, softening inside them.

“There’s a slight problem I’d like to remedy, in the meantime, if that’s quite alright with you.”

“Of course. Anything.”

“Well… you see, Commander… I’m afraid  _I’ve_  yet to eat, if you’d like to indulge me…”

And his eyes widen and they roll him over, on his back, crawling down, slow and dark and languid, and he laughs,  _snorts_ , caught in disbelief, his fingers twisted tender in their hair.

Their scent fills his senses, and he twitches again


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only Elf can turn a stripper AU into a fluffy mess. Have an awkward, dancing Alistair who wins the crowd over and your heart with his clumsy antics and charming smiles and ridiculously well defined abs. Safe for work. Oddly enough. For Alistair Week @ tumblr ♥

You don't know what you're doing here. You came with a friend, walked in on reluctant feet, and the frown you sport tells volume of the discomfort you feel. You've staggered inside and you stagger still, your mind,  _boggled_ , and you don't know where to look and you  _know_  it's ridiculous because it's precisely why you're here,  _to look_ , gaze and ogle, and your head can't stay up. Losing yourself in the contemplation of your lap seems rather appealing as complete strangers undress themselves in front of you, higher up on the stage, and you don't understand, why and how and  _ohhh, no, you  most definitely understand how_ , toned chest revealed and hard skin, and you can't bring yourself to look  _lower_.

\----

He doesn't know what he's doing here. It's apparent in the way he walks on stage,  _wobbles_ , and he reminds you of your own entrance, uneasy, cheeks aflame, and he glowers and he glares at  _something_ , hidden behind pulled curtains, and for one second you think he'll leave. He doesn't. He laughs,  _coughs_ , nervous and clad in a pretty dress and oh, Maker,  _someone please put him out of his misery_. Nobody comes to his rescue, awkward moves and stiffened steps, and you watch, fingers tense over your eyes, overwhelmed by the sort of second-hand embarrassment that makes your skin crawl. He's terrible, definitely  _not_  a dancer, and the audience's grown quiet, confused, and your heart races and his own mustn't fare better... until he  _smiles_ , frank, sweet, dimples in his cheeks, and his gaze is so charming your pulse jumps again, and the audience's as well. You've not even noticed his body—and you suspect nobody else has, enthralled by an unexpected kind of innocence, candid, genuine, and when you leave, even though your face still burns, you decide, on impulse, that you'd really like to see that smile again.

\---

You come back, and you tell yourself that you're really just accompanying your friend, but the second you're inside, you search, for  _him_ , antsy on your chair as the show begins. He always comes last, and  _you_  always wait, room emptier—you know why and you don't really care—and you wonder,  _why is he even here_ , because he can't dance and it's painfully obvious, but he's here regardless, jokes on his tongue,  _questionable_ , and still he makes the crowd laugh and he makes your blood pound, and his smile's grown naughtier. He looks nothing more than a fish out of water, his humor a mere distraction, a diversion, shyness deflected, and you find it so endearing you catch yourself off-guard, gazing down, and you gasp and you freeze and  _you look right back up_ , amber eyes locked into yours and  _Maker's breath_ , he's stolen  _yours_  away.

\---

He lives in town. You find out one morning, sweat clinging to your flesh—after catching a delectable glimpse of his body, you decided you should keep yours in better shape—and he walks his dog and he waves at people on his way, strangers, and his smile never wavers. You hide, of course—you don't think you could handle crossing his gaze again, not now, and you observe, the ease with which he moves among people, and it's baffling, how natural he looks here, jovial words and smooth gestures, no fear stiffening his limbs, and you wonder how he ended up in a strip club.

\---

You learn why a few weeks later, swollen eyes as he removes his clothes, and your friend tells you. It's his uncle—Duncan—so sick he can't pay the medical bills, and he dances, for his sake, clumsy and vulnerable, not where he should be, a sacrifice, and you know how it feels, losing someone you love, and you stop thinking. Nobody's ever asked—he's too awkward—but you do,  _ask_ , a private dance, and your cheeks threaten to burst. He doesn't look at you, broken chuckles as he moves, and you return each one of them, palms moist and skin of fire _, too much skin_ , and he asks how you're doing. It's how it starts, it's how it  _continues_ , a flutter of interest, and he smiles again, jesting, striving to make  _you_  feel comfortable, and there's something here, another sort of dance, and it's in his eyes and it's in yours as well, a warmer gaze when he's done, a bashful laugh. He thanks you, not for the money but for the conversation, and you find yourself wishing there would be more clothes between you, not here, but together, away, something real.

\---

He never stops looking at you. He knows when you walk in, and he knows when you walk out, and you seek each other, nothing more than stolen glances, but the smiles you smile mean everything. His clumsiness has won the crowd over, and he comes first now, fourth and last. You try to ignore the pang in your chest when someone else requests a private dance—he's not yours and you're ridiculous.  _You don't even know him_. You don't know him and you wish you did, and you think, perhaps wistfully, that the gentle glint in his eyes when you catch him smiling at you holds the same kind of hope you cling to, and it's what brings you back here, the thought that,  _maybe_ , one day, you'll muster enough courage to ask.

\---

Time passes. You see him often, in town, always kind, helping people, the smile he sports frank and warm despite his own struggles, and it's how you know that his heart's in the right place. There's a strange distance between you, one that neither of you can seem to reach, and you watch each other, from afar, growing closer in silence, a sheepish sort of acknowledgement that burns strong and eager in the space you won't dare occupy.

\---

You never stop coming back, your table closer to the stage now, closer to  _him_ , and you're not surprised when he becomes the favorite dancer. They call him  _The King_ , still awkward yet oddly alluring, charismatic and strong in a gentle way, and dozens of roses are thrown at the audience, a gift, every night,  _from him_ , and you've never caught one and it doesn't bother you much, because you catch his smile instead, always, and you find that it's enough.

\---

There's an event, one evening, and he doesn't dance then—he  _answers_ , interacts with the crowd, fully dressed _, that's a switch_ , and you watch from a distance, eager on the edge of your chair, and you breathe a little faster.

Is there a person in his life, they want to know, and you do as well.

" _Weeeeeell_... I love my dog," and he shrugs,  _grins_  as the crowd laughs, but there's something more, in his eyes, something you've learnt to notice now, and his audience asks again and he blushes,  _coughs_ , finding sudden interest in the contemplation of his feet, and you stop breathing.

"I uh... no, I suppose there...  _isn't_. But there's...  _someone_  I... I think I like, or I  _could_ , I mean. My heart does this  _crazy_  thing every time I see them and I don't even know their  _name_. Creepy, right?"

_No, no, it's not creepy at all,_ and you search his face and you can't find what you're looking for, because he's stopped looking at you, his smile uneasy now, and your pulse jumps and your heart lurches in your chest, and you know you won't see his eyes tonight.

You leave shaky on your legs, a puzzled frown creasing your face—have you read him wrong? Your blood races in your veins and you feel a burden there,  _in your throat_ , and you don't notice the shadow behind you, you don't  _hear_ , because your ears are full, an odd pressure around your skull that batters in the back of your eyes. You don't sense anything, but you feel, a tap on your shoulder, and when you turn around, a soft cry on your tongue, you  nearly swallow it.

_The King_  stands tall before you, no more than a foot away, and he smiles, for you, a tender glow in his eyes, a rose in his hand, and you lean in, a broken sigh on your lips as you drift toward each other, and you know now, why he wasn't looking at you, impish now, coy _, I'm Alistair_ , and you feel the warmth of his fingers hovering over yours and you tremble, a whisper in his smile, only for you to hear, the only thing that matters:

"I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

 

[elfrooted @ tumblr](http://elfrooted.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what would your first date be like with alistair, or with cullen?

**ALISTAIR  
** sweet, candid alistair, idealistic and quick-humored, cracking jokes faster than you can catch your breath. you never expected to feel as deeply as you do, but somewhere down the road, you shunned the thought of a life without him. he danced for you, once— _in a dress_ —and he’d dance for you again should you ever ask. you think  _that’s_  the exact moment you fell for him. you were wrong. you’re falling  _now,_ standing close on the bridge where you first met, and he sings a poem he wrote for you, a single crinkled page pinched between trembling fingers. notes tumble over his lips in gawky dissonance and you’re positively certain it’s the worst thing you’ve ever heard. you laugh, stealing his otherwise focused attention. your pulse jumps—you meant no offense, but he looks at you with a knowing smile and it stretches his mouth and it warms your cheeks, and you grin at each other. he reaches out to pull you against him, letting go of the page but never of you, and his laughter touches your lips and his hold tightens  _and_   _maker’s breath but you’re beautiful_. he is a lucky man.

 

\----

 

 **CULLEN  
** you’ve never expected him to wield a weapon with such efficiency. he holds his sword without fear, skilled and focused and merciless as he spars in medieval armor, and you stand there mesmerized by his prowess, proud and conquered. it’s what first lured you in, the contrasts of his character; you never imagined a man such as cullen to be so capable, so fierce and seemingly controlled among people, the same man you once caught apologizing to the chair he’d just clumsily bumped into. he’s left you dumbfounded many times, and he’s doing it again  _now_ , carrying the toys you won with the same calloused hands he used to spar. he’s most definitely in his element here, and you’re glad he invited you—you’ve never been to a faire before, but despite the many attractions, he’s what makes your heart lurch in your chest. you’ve caught his stare many times, bashful smiles and reddened cheeks, and you searched for his hand just as often, to touch, to hold, and you despair as you seek and evade each other, flustered and frustrated as your fingers merely brush. it’s only when the sun finally sets that he takes you elsewhere, past the small circus, away from the crowd, your eyes riveted on the horizon. you hear him sigh beside you and you turn to face him, but he doesn’t let you. he pulls you in,  _hard_ , before you’ve said anything, and you’re crushed there in his arms and you can’t breathe as he groans into your mouth, and you don’t care. toys pool at your feet and you feel his chuckle on your tongue—you smile, fingers in his hair. in the distance, a lion roars.

 

\----

 

you can find the full version, including all male LIs, right [here](http://elfrooted.tumblr.com/post/112370959064/first-dates-modern-ish-au-dragon-age-male). 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> art by nsfwfrosch @ tumblr  
> 

You're gaping. _Maker's breath_ doesn't even begin to describe how the sight of him makes you feel, hard and ridged muscles beneath supple skin, and you've traced the line of every rib and you feel your hands twitching at your sides, eager to remember. His chest rises slow, an easy smile slanting his mouth—he looks particularly serene, and your own chest swells at the thought of him being _happy_ , a wave of warmth rushing down and pooling _there,_ where your pulse pounds harder, blooming heat at the apex of your thighs. _He's yours_. You can scarcely believe it, even now, willingly sharing himself with you and giving you all that he is and more, _because he loves you_ , and you gawk and you beam and you stare, and you feel like there's not enough of you to encompass everything he is.

He's of a different mind. You're not sure how, but he hears you, cracking one eye open and lifting his head, just enough to catch a glimpse of you, and his smile gleams wider. _Wanted_. It's how he makes you feel, whenever he gazes at you, the whole of him fixed on you like nothing else ever mattered. He _does_ want you. His cock jerks larger as you approach, glistening there in the sunlight and _swelling_ , rising up to brush against his inner thigh and leaving a trail of precum across his skin, and you waver as the head settles against the perfect slabs of his abdomen. He grins, _because he knows_ , and he welcomes you closer, a wink and a chuckle, his palms on your hips as you carefully straddle him. His brows rise, _wiggle_ , and you snort, but the sound quickly dies in your throat as he gives a tentative thrust—you feel him there, rubbing against you, slow and slick and hard,  and you arch your back for more and he _rolls_ , undulates beneath you, his cock nestled where you need him most. The friction drives you wild, and you ride him faster, hand warm on your chest and fingers digging into your hip, a rhythm he half-controls, and you pant together and he jerks _up_ , his arm around you and his mouth over yours, moaning your name urgently against your lips, his own lost in the sighs you share.

_Maker's breath but you're beautiful_ , and you believe him, but as he trails open-mouthed kisses across your shoulder and shivers in your arms, his cock spurting thick against your stomach, you hold him tighter, and you know, pleasure flowing through you, that _you_ are the lucky one.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on this [VERY NSFW GIF](http://elfrooted.tumblr.com/post/136081509304/nsfwfrosch-busy-cullen-hes-fallen-asleep) of cullen touching himself, made by nsfwfrosch @ tumblr. charlotte trevelyan also belongs to her.

He's fallen asleep. In his chair. _Again_. She'd scold him, if she were here, _Charlotte_ , with her eyes so bright and her glare so fierce, and he'd nod, taking the brunt of her admonitions with a smile he knows he'd fail to conceal. She cares for him. More than he's ever allowed anyone to, more than he's ever allowed _himself_ , and he knows he needs to slow down, to _sleep_ , but to be fair, he _was_ sleeping, and it's only now that he's awake that he realizes just how badly his temples ache. The result of many restless nights, and the lack of a cushion to hold his head, the lack of _her_ , soothing his mind, and he sighs long and heavy, the bridge of his nose pinched between calloused fingers. Dreams linger in his eyes, in his _limbs_ , but they aren't the reason why he awakened, like they often are— _she_ is, everywhere and filling his senses like her scent does, faint but there in the fur of his mantle, and he feels her around his shoulders and he feels her _lower_ , where his cock sprang free, breeches unlaced as the muscles of his abdomen clench in anticipation. _He shouldn't indulge himself_. It's the same kind of resolve that drives his sense of discipline, his self-control and his devotion, the same that keeps him _here_ , when he should be in his bed, but when his gaze wanders down, a sigh on his lips as his cock twitches hard on his stomach, he can almost see _her_ , poised between his legs like he loves writhing between hers, _and he surrenders_.

His mantle clings loose to his shoulder as his arm flexes, gliding fanned fingers across the expanse of his chest. She often touches him there, skin dusted in light golden curls, slightly darker than his hair. It's easy to remember her warmth when his thumb smoothes over his nipple, hardened at the memory of her tongue stroking him, and his head falls back, a groan in his throat as he parts his thighs, his other hand reaching down to cup his balls. _Maker's breath_. He feels the fur of his coat against his cheek, full of her smell, and he can't help but thrust, _up_ , his arse sliding down to the edge of his seat. She wore it the night before, while he licked her sex and squeezed her breast, while he moaned and panted with her, dazed on the taste of her. She wore it while _he_ wore nothing, arse taut as he arched his back and rubbed his cock against the sheet, and he remembers the pressure and he grips himself, a long groan in his throat as his nipple tightens between pinched fingers. There's precum all over the crown, his cock slick and heavy in his palm, and he pumps, once, twice, moaning raw with each twist of his wrist as his hips undulate with the same languorous motions. _He misses her_. Everything, from her smile to her arms around him, and her grin, when she invites him closer and his cock swells against her belly—he shivers at the thought, grip tighter as he remembers the feel of her, her gasp when the head of his cock nudges her, _there_ , where she needs him and where he needs her, and it jerks in his palm and _he bucks up_ , so brusque he nearly falls off the chair.

He doesn't stop, a whimper in his throat as he chews on his bottom lip, and he braces himself on his heels, squirming as he strokes, _faster_ , his pulse wild as sweat beads on his skin. She loves watching him, as he loves watching her, and thinking of her here, with him, it drives him mad and he calls her name, low, soft, _louder_ , a broken litany as his arse heaves off the chair, and he knows he can't slow down.

He comes, the head of his shaft rubbing slick against his abdomen, and it jerks and it spurts and he _grunts_ , longer strokes and staccato sighs, hips thrusting in wild abandon. It spills across his chest, coating his fingers, and he writhes in bliss until he can feel his lungs again, _flausch_ pooling at his feet. His head doesn't hurt anymore but his arm _does_ , and so do his legs, shaky, and he blinks up the ceiling and he _breathes_ , fingers lazy around his cock. He rides the last of his orgasm with languid touches, and when he closes his eyes, he sees her, a delightful smirk on her lips, and he's eager feel her again.

He won't until the moon's waned a few days more, and he falls asleep on that hope, in his chair, again, a chuckle on his lips as slumber overtakes him. She wouldn't approve, but he vows to make it up to her.

~~In the distance, Jim cries louder.~~


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cullen through the years

  * cullen, young, barely into adulthood, dreaming of serving a greater cause, for the greater good. dreaming of _protecting_ , the outside world and civilians, but _mages_ as well, from, against, because they, too, need protection.
  * cullen, friendly, a splash of crimson upon his cheeks. _he shouldn’t_. she flirts with him and he stutters, and he finds a million reasons to deny her, duties first, devotion, _it wouldn’t be proper_. when he runs, _away_ , and once dark falls, his heart still beats for her, a little faster every night.
  * cullen. blood. death. pain. screams in his ears, and laughter as well, frenzied, unhinged, raw and throbbing in the back of his skull, where his mind is ripped apart. it’s the kind of suffering that doesn’t have a name, weighing heavy on open wounds and lingering, even when he wakes. 
  * cullen, young, barely older, and his heart’s stopped beating.
  * knight-captain cullen, angry. scared.  _scarred_ , where his thoughts scuffle, a battleground he never trained for. his faith remains, but his ideals are blurred, and someone preys on his fears, on his _pain_ , and he’s too blind to see.
  * knight-captain cullen, following orders, still devoted, treating the mages he once protected like the threat he feels they’ve become. he hurts still, nightmares when he sleeps, when he _doesn’t_ , and it’s hard to see past the demons he’s seen, and _she_ encourages his weaknesses.
  * knight-captain cullen, eyes open, seeing hatred for what it is, turning people into someone he doesn’t want to be. this isn’t why he became a templar. this isn’t how the order should be handled. this isn’t who he is, and she needs to be stopped.
  * knight-captain cullen, a new scar on his lip, rebuilding, helping. remorse and pain, the same and a different kind, shoulders hunched under added strain. this isn’t who he is… but who is he? _she_ knows, _she_ sees, _seeks_ , a light he hasn’t felt in a long time, a chance to do better, _more_.
  * commander cullen, inbetween war and strategies, a sword that weighs much more than it should. he dreams awake, demons over him, and his head pounds and his body aches, but he never relents, another cause, his life at risk and his sanity as well.
  * commander cullen, playing chess with a mage, from _tevinter_ , and he remembers what it feels like, the hopes he had, when he was younger, a better world, and friendship blooms and he breathes easier, but he never forgets.
  * commander cullen, who doesn’t forgive, either, _himself_ , but he _tries_ , a work in progress as he heals, and he gives his all, despite his struggles, he _strives_ , not for himself but for the cause he believes in, and he’ll see it through.
  * cullen, at long last, swords and shields behind, a shelter for those who suffer and a dog by his side. there’s a smile stretching his lips, and it widens when he looks at her, beautiful as the sun shines upon her, and he feels his heart beating again.




	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair pleasuring himself, thinking of you~

Your name, his voice, hushed and strained and deep, rolling on his tongue with the moans he strives to squelch. He breathes low, and fast, staccato puffs of air that touch his lips in a rhythmic flux, the same inconstancy in his arm, shuddering motions. You're not supposed to be here, but you heard him, and now you  _ see _ , and he doesn't know. You watch weaken-kneed from the doorjamb, cracked open, and he looks like the man you fell for, a side of him you haven't yet explored.

You can't tear your gaze away; you feel like you should, but your will has given up the last of its strength. He's beautiful. The glow of the candelabrum above him brings to bold relief the hard planes of his torso, freckled skin turned gold in the dim light of his room, and your body arches in unison with his own, when his grip  _ tightens _ , languorous undulations as he thrusts into his palm. His chest rises and falls, and his brows as well, long lashes sweeping across heated cheeks, his face lined with pleasure. You can almost  _ taste him _ , sweat pearling down his abdomen, and he releases his cock and it springs full and hard against his stomach, leaving a smear of precum in the hair-dusted patch of skin there. Arousal tingles across your nerves, and your hand slithers down between the apex of your thighs, nipples taut as you watch him run his thumb across his own, his cock bobbing in need. 

He won't last much longer. You recognize the signs, hips rolling sluggish as gruff sighs swell out of his throat, lower lip caught in bliss,  _ nose wriggling _ , and his hands roam the expanse of his chest as he tries to halt the inevitable, exhaling harsh through his nose. There's a whimper lost in his breath, and he grabs his shaft again, stroking, thumbing and rubbing its plush head as he pumps eagerly, and you can easily imagine him pounding into you, craving the friction of his cock where you touch yourself.

He comes apart in the next moment, and you shake with the force of his orgasm, quick yet drawn-out notes of elation as he catches his breath and loses his senses, messy jerks of his arm to ride the last of his climax.  _ He's beautiful _ . He moves slow,  _ thorough _ , calloused fingers lazy and firm  around his thick length, and his cum dribbles down his balls, his thighs and his knees, a fine trail glistening across his belly.

You're not sure what happens. You  _ trip _ —over your own pleasure, perhaps—and the door opens and you stumble forward, and you fall in front of him. There's no hesitation—he's force and movement, kneeling beside you a moment later, and his hand is on your arm and it steadies you, and he asks you if you're alright.  _ You're not _ . You look up and your gazes cross, and he seems to realize then, that he's not wearing anything—colors spread to his cheeks as surely as they drain from yours, and he stares wide-eyed and your mouth grows dry, and you catch a glimpse of his cock in your periphery, smooth and still iron hard. 

_ Maker's breath _ . 

You don't mean to moan, but you  _ do _ , and as you stare stunned at each other, you can tell that his mind oscillates between joke and apology, and you're not sure which one will come first. Neither does. His shoulders shake on a silent laugh, and he offers a sheepish smile, a lot more suave than it should be, and he leans in and you stop breathing, feeling his cock nudging the inside of your thigh.

He kisses you, his tongue languid around yours,  _ hot _ , the same heat rubbing against your sex, and you hum together and  _ mmmh _ and  _ nnnh _ , and he's ready to love you again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>   
>  you can see the full picture [here](http://nsfwfrosch.tumblr.com/post/146807711037/oh-dear-alistair-what-are-you-doing-with-a) (nsfw).


	12. TAINT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair's ran out of time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A blur.

It's how it starts, in the periphery of his vision. A blur in the back of his old skull, where the song changes, screams and shrieks, distorted laughter. It's much slower, like his limbs, but it's _louder_ , and still he hears her voice. He doesn't want to leave her. They've always been together. Perhaps it's what makes him stall, even though he's always known. Borrowed time. A deadline.

But death doesn't come.

It's something else, carving its violence deep where it never really stops beating, but even there... it wavers, _blurs_ , another pulse that's not quite his own. Alistair... _Alistair_. Who is he? He remembers her better than he remembers himself, and he feels her _there_ , his tainted heart, beating with the remnants of his love, the memories of her touch. _He doesn't want to leave her_.

But he does. His mind first, then his body, and he's trapped in a shell he doesn't know, a cry in his throat, too tight. _Decay_. It's what he smells, bones cracking under new pressure, limbs that seem to move on their own. His eyes burn and his chest aches, and he grunts, gruff and raw, _no, no_ , and the cry he finally hears doesn't reach his lips.

It's her, and he _sees_ her, but he doesn't, a rose in his palm, vision blurred, _again_ , but it's different. It's _him_ , and it isn't, and it's not enough, petals and tears, a flurry of red, too much red.

She cries. Loud. Choked. And as the pain slowly ebbs away, echoes of her voice... he sees no longer.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which warden alistair bonds with a nug he accidentally injured while reminiscing the woman he loves.

_Friendly fire_.

A name gone astray, much like the results it provokes. Why call anything _friendly_ when it's everything _but_? He could think of a few suitable terms. Clumsy fire seems apt enough, for instance. Or... I didn't mean to shoot you in the arse fire. If you look closely, your wound looks like a dog fire. _A very big dog_ fire. I almost killed a nug and Leliana is going to murder me in my sleep... fire.

_And Elissa is most likely going to join her_.

She won't, of course. Neither will Leliana. There's no way for them to know, although he wouldn't put it past the latter to find out, _somehow_ , because even when he doubted her, she knew everything. She's busier now—a full-fledged spy working alongside the Inquisition—and Elissa is... _well_. He isn't sure where she is, and it's an added strain on his shoulders, _her absence_ , when everything around reminds him of her. He wouldn't need to be anywhere, actually—closing his eyes is enough, and it's where he feels her, shut tight and _damp_ , his heart beating higher than it should.

"I'm moping again, aren't I," Alistair coughs for good measure, a memory dislodged from his throat, and he crouches near the fire, where his patient lies half-awake.

The nug lifts its head slightly, a little wriggle of its nose, and it squeaks and it snorts and it _frowns_ , or at least it's what it _looks_ like, in the firelight, and Alistair scoffs in turn.

"Oh, _please_ ," he half-smiles, settling more comfortably beside his new companion. "As if you even _know_   what I was thinking abo... _wait_. Do you? Huh. You know, I always wondered why Leliana liked you so much. Nugs, I mean. All skin and bo—"

_Squeak!_

"Hey! _Nugget_. Keep your claws—Ow! I only meant to say— _Ow_!"

It's awfully swift, for a wounded animal, its hind legs covered in elfroot salve and neatly bandaged, the last piece of clean linen he had. He doesn't regret it. It's his fault, but more than that, _it's alive_ , and there's been so much death on his path, a decade of endings, the life of _one_ is always worth saving.

Elissa would have done the same, and he takes care of Nugget the same way she's so often taken care of _him_. To an extent, he feels like they can relate—seemingly alone and wounded in different places, for different reasons, stuck in a world that's done so little for them, for all the things they had to offer.

And they sport the same nose.

"Alright, alright," Alistair pushes its little paws away, making sure the bandages are still set in place.

It's healing, and he sighs a long sigh, lightly scratching Nugget's ear.

"You're... kind of cute, I guess. Even if that's _all_ you have. No secret power or anything. I mean... Beauty's in the eye of the beholder, right?  It's not a bad thing, I swear. Elissa would never have noticed me otherwise. You knoooow... in _that_ way."

And oh, _Maker_. How much he misses her.

And maybe Nugget really knows, after all. It squeaks again, looking up and sniffling, a small shiver running down its spine. The breeze's grown colder with the flames lower, and Alistair extends his arm, a silent invitation.

"Well. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty tired. It's been... what. Four days? Let's make peace."

Wolves howl in the distance, too far to be a threat. He keeps his sword next to his bedroll regardless, and he shifts underneath, his back against the bark of a fallen tree. It's when he yawns that Nugget touches his offered hand with the tip of its nose, as if reassured, and Alistair moves to pick it up, gently securing his new companion in his arms.

It feels warm against his chest, and it's been so long since he's felt _anything_... he can't help it; he smiles, vision slightly blurred, and he sighs again, heart fuller.

Friendly fire.

 

 

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	14. Chapter 14

**alistair** , only a boy, no mother, and a father he can’t speak of.  _theirin_. a curse on his tongue, a blessing everywhere else. he doesn’t know who he is, or  _what_  he’s supposed to be; the horses are his only company.

**alistair** , barely older, nothing more than a nuisance. she doesn’t want him here. rumors spill in his wake, mocked for what he is, and shamed for what he’s not. she resents him; he doesn’t understand, not yet, his mother’s memory shattered on the stone. he leaves angry— _good riddance_. but the chantry is no peaceful haven.

**alistair** , a teenager now. a new home, a new tormentor. he’ll be a templar, one day. it’s not what  _he_ wants, but choices have been few, and wishes even fewer. his life isn’t  _his_ , and he finds solace in the kind of education they offer here, a warrior in the making and a sharp mind to boot.

**alistair** , ever the jester. a half-wit to most, but he’s aware. he’s always been, and it’s become second nature to him, to  _joke_ , deflections that serve him well. it distracts, but it reassures as well, and it’s how he copes, brightening his way through the turmoil looming over him, and so long as none can catch the hitch in his breath, sometimes he even manages to fool himself.

**alistair** , a young man now, and  _oh_ , maker.  _he doesn’t want to take his vows_. he doesn’t. he’s taken away,  _again_ , but for the first time in his life, he follows willingly. duncan takes him under his wing, and he  _rises_ , a fatherly figure he never expected to find.

**warden alistai** r, a choice, his own. the journey ahead is a harsh one for such a young battered heart, but he thrives among his peers, and he feels like he belongs.

**warden alistair** , quiet pain creeping underneath mirth, and his demeanor rarely ever betrays him. but _she_  sees. right through him, and when death comes, when blood spills and when breathing just isn’t enough,  _she_  is,  _enough_ , and she helps him stand again.

**warden alistair** , with so much more than he could ever have hoped for. there’s only two of them now, grey against red, and a convoy of misfits by their side. he likes her. the one who  _sees_ , and oh,  _he_ sees  _her_. strong, despite her own losses, a rare and wonderful thing amidst the darkness that surrounds them. she shines through, and his heart beats faster.

**warden alistair** , and there’s a war brewing.  _civil_  war _,_ asif the blight wasn’t enough. rumors roam faster than darkspawn, hearsay and defamation, and he doesn’t particularly like where they go, or _how_  they go. damage splatters in loghain’s wake, and duncan comes to mind, every time. she appeases him, and so does  _she_ , the older mage.  _wynne_. she mends his socks and she heals his wounds, and she indulges him more than she should, when he teases her. in many ways, she feels like the mother he never had, and perhaps, to an extent… he’s like the son she never knew.

**warden alistair** , young still, but older,  _hardened_. she loves him, and he loves her, and beyond this war, he can’t imagine his life without her.  _his_  life, his own to share, to  _give_ , if he so wishes, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do, to keep her safe.

**warden alistair** , and he’s learned well; victory demands sacrifices, and they aren’t always dealt in _death._ he does what he must, for the greater good, greater than all of them, because even now, he knows that some things are more important than what  _he_  wants.  


**king alistair**.  _theirin_. it never meant much of anything. it was a name, a curse, a father he never knew. it was blame and rejection, mockery and infliction, and now…  _now_  it’s a nation, an army, an influence and an authority. a  _future_. he has to face what it means, even if he isn’t sure what  _he_ means, only a throne, and it’s a relic he can’t relate to.

**king alistair** , only a man, and  _she_  is the hero of ferelden. the archdemon dies the same way it lived; forceful, terrifying, a blast of energy knocking them down and away, splitting the skies. his ears _ring_ , a dull silence as dust and wind wash over them, disbelief in the burgeoning clamor; it explodes in victorious cries and darkspawn flee and men rejoice, and alistair  _laughs_ , his lover by his side.

**king alistair.**  a sovereign. a grey warden. a husband. a long path behind him and a longer still ahead, but more than that…  _alistair_. the man he’s become and, in spite of his losses and struggles, never lost sight of his kind heart.

**alistair**. the man he chose to be.

 

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